


The Proverbial Apple

by AreYouReady



Series: It Was Never Truly A Garden [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU: Sherlock and Jim Meet Much Earlier, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Under Different Circumstances, Dark-ish!Sherlock, Gen, M/M, Moriarty Is So Much Fun, drug references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AreYouReady/pseuds/AreYouReady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of mutual entertainment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Proverbial Apple

Sherlock Holmes, seventeen. Tall, pretty but gangly, rebelling against his parents, brilliant, and, most importantly, starving for a fix.

But not the kind of fix one gets from a needle, no matter what the marks on his forearms might indicate. _That_ fix was only a stand in for another sort: Entertainment.

These were the things that Jim Moriarty, twenty years old and already climbing his way up the criminal ladder, saw in the creature before him. Not to mention: that boy solved what this boy killed, all those many years ago.

But Sherlock’s precise, yet brutal touch was better suited used against the law than for it.

So Jim placed himself in the role of the serpent, offering a sweet and juicy apple to an all too willing Eve.

-

 _Bored. Bored bored bored bored BORED BORED._ Sherlock twirled his pencil idly. He’d read most every book in the library he was currently sulking in, even the children’s picture books. There was absolutely nothing to occupy his mind; Mycroft had even taken away his stash, the bastard. Not that Sherlock hadn’t gotten his revenge, but that had only been funny for a few minutes, and then it way back to this living hell composed entirely of nothing, nothing, _nothing,_ and he didn’t even have the drugs to fall back on.

Sherlock was pondering the benefits and drawbacks of homicide when a man approached him from behind a bookcase. Older than Sherlock by a good few years, shorter than him by a good few inches, though neither of these traits were remarkable in and of themselves. But the set of his posture, the tailoring of his clothes, and some educated extrapolation told Sherlock that this man _was_ extraordinary, indeed, one of a kind.

Or one of a pair, because there was a glint in this man’s eye that made Sherlock, just for the briefest moment, believe he was looking into a mirror.

“Hallo, Sherlock Holmes,” said the man, nationality obvious in his accent, reverence in his tone.

“Hello,” Sherlock replied, pleased with the high testosterone levels that lent his voice its deepness. The basic biological fact that caused a low, rumbling voice to mean dominance was working in his favor, here.

“My name is Jim. Well, James Moriarty, but you can call me Jim.” The man placed a hand behind his head, and grinned a sheepish grin. His voice had a slight tenor of awkward embarrassment about it, a perfect response to Sherlock’s vocal tactic. His every movement was incredibly calculated, and Sherlock found his opinion of the man rising to something he might even call _admiration._

“Pleased to meet you, James.” Sherlock answered, shifting his posture slightly. There, asserting dominance the way this Jim expected him to by using the wrong name, but also letting his conversational opponent know that Sherlock knew his play.

“Likewise,” and here Jim giggled nervously, “I’m a… bit of a fan of yours,” he clasped his hands in front of him, not unlike a school girl speaking to her crush. Sherlock was intrigued. This man was no such thing, but what did he really want? Perhaps he _was_ a fan, just not of the… _conventional_ sort.

And then the pieces slid into place. This man was like him, like him enough to be just as bored. If they were to play a game with each other, then that boredom would certainly be alleviated.

“A fan?” Sherlock raised a deliberate eyebrow. He injected his tone with a mixture of false disdain and well-hidden disbelief; the character he was playing - and he knew Moriarty knew it was a character, too - was an insecure boy, hiding behind a veneer of arrogance.

“Er, yes, I, er… I like your website.” Interesting, but not entirely unexpected. Sherlock was well known in amateur detective circles, and made no secret of his offline identity. That this man knew of _The Science of Deduction_ was by no means a shock. “And I was wondering…” now small talk was over with, and the real game would begin, “…if you could take a look at this case.”

Fascinating. The man gave that shy, sheepish smile again, and, still standing, reached into his bag, and pulled forth a pile of photographs. Sherlock just looked at him, and the character Moriarty was playing got a little more flustered.

“Er, we… I mean, me and my deducing partner, magnifyingglassmagic, that is, well, we found this case, maybe a little bit illegally, and there’s a bloke getting convicted for it right now, but we don’t think it’s him, and he’s going to get the death penalty…”

“Ah, well, that may be interesting enough for me then,” Sherlock said, contorting his face into a mask of fearful sympathy, and then just as quickly returning to mild disdain, as though to cover up the emotions he was feeling. In response, Moriarty quirked his eyebrow the tiniest amount, while still mostly maintaining his façade. So, he was impressed. Good.

He took the photographs. They were a set of four crime scenes, and the bodies that were removed from them. Judging from the wounds, each murder had been committed with an identical knife. From the arterial spray, the angle and depth of the wounds, and the struggle that seemed to have occurred beforehand, pointed to a strong, but short man in his early thirties, prone to rash decisions. Normally, he would be making these deductions out loud, showing off, but he didn’t trust Moriarty, and something was wrong.  It was too perfect.

Sherlock looked again, and saw the problem: these murders were _calculated_ to seem that way. In actuality, the murderer was cold and controlled, every move deliberate. He was quite a bit taller than he designed the crime scenes to appear, around six feet. He was also less strong, though by no means weak, and had not struggled with his victims before killing them. Instead, he’d incapacitated them with something beforehand, drugs, most likely, and then made it look like there was a fight. The culprit was also teenaged, judging by the slight awkwardness of the path of his movements while arranging things. There was also a bit of short, curly, dark hair on the third victim’s cardigan, which could’ve easily passed for a dog hair, except that the placement was wrong.

And then it hit Sherlock: calm, controlled teenager, six feet tall, dark, curly hair, and the ability to make it look like the perpetrator had none of those characteristics. He’d just described himself.

These murders were committed specifically for his benefit, since no one else would notice such a clever frame. No one would even suspect a wiry, emotionless teenager when there was clear evidence that the murderer had been an adult man with anger management issues. Sherlock would place a bet that fingerprints had even been planted at the scene of the crime.

Well, Moriarty had obviously seen it too. Was this a threat? No. It was a grab for Sherlock’s attention.  And it had certainly worked. Though there was still one question left…

“Who is the suspect? The one being framed?” Sherlock asked. If he really played the game at the level that Sherlock suspected, even that would be important.

“Er… I think his name was… Powers. Carl Powers.”

 _Carl Powers. Carl Powers. Carl Powers._ Sherlock almost dropped his mask. Moriarty… Moriarty knew. Something dangerous flitted across the man’s face, just for a moment. He was letting Sherlock have a glimpse. Moriarty didn’t just know. Moriarty. Moriarty was the killer. He had murdered Carl Powers, and now he’d sought Sherlock out. But Sherlock wasn’t in danger, oh no. He was far too entertaining. This was a flirtation with Sherlock's intellect.

“Let us continue this outside,” said Sherlock, with a manic grin, shedding the façade like water.

“Of course, _darling_ ,” Jim replied, doing the same, and just for a moment, Sherlock thought he saw brown eyes glint dark red.

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I'll get back to Night Vale soon, but some old fandoms reared their ugly heads, and I suddenly felt the urge to write the treatise on human kismessitude and tribute to Death Note that is this fic.


End file.
